Did something go wrong when I was born?
They labeled you perfect, but mine said emo.
Displayed on the shelf of life and torture.
You were priceless, but my price tag said worthless.
And I write my problems on my arm, neatly with my razor.
And they all think I'm just a broken, useless toy.
And you fix your makeup every hour, your face caked in fake.
And they all think you're bran new, and perfect like a barbie.
You dance in plastic and perfection.
I dance in black and depression.
But though everyone may seem to want you,
There's always one person that will choose the creepy, disfigured toy over the sparkly, popular one.
And I write my problems on my arm, neatly with my razor.
By Lara-Ann Van Huffel (me)